Seeing
by Lirazel
Summary: If we could only see ourselves as others see us and then add up all the evidence. RHr oneshot, postHBP


Seeing

If we could only see ourselves as other sees us and then add up all the evidence. R/Hr one-shot, post HBP

A little less angsty, a little fluffier than my usual fare, but I hope not too sappy or melodramatic. Besides, I kind of like the new structure, and I like to think of it as a twist on what has become a very definite cliché. This was a lot of fun to write; I hope you enjoy it.

_Disclaimer: I'm not J.K. Rowling (in case you couldn't tell), I don't own _Harry Potter_, I'm not making a cent off of this. The names of Hermione's parents I blatantly stole from _sproutgirl _and her _Understanding and Acceptance_, simply because I can't think of them with any other names anymore._

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Judith Granger, who is waiting anxiously on the platform, sees that her daughter is not floating her trunk along in front of her as usual—her last bit of magic before the summer officially begins, and the only piece of her other life that Judith ever gets to see—but that the tall, redheaded boy who suddenly, this year, doesn't look anything like a boy at all, has hoisted it onto his shoulder like a dockworker and is walking beside Hermione, listening to her talk animatedly with an expression half-bored, half-fond. A lonely wind blows through Judith's heart, and not for the first time, she resents—hates—that other world that her daughter belongs to now—there's no use denying it—because of how much of Hermione's life has been stolen away from her, all the little moments that led her daughter to this place that she never got a chance to see. Hermione isn't a child anymore, not with the way that young man is looking at her, and Judith sees something in those familiar brown eyes that lets her know that her daughter has passed the boundary between girl and woman, and she wonders where the years went. Tears mist her eyes as she embraces her daughter.

Ten minutes later, it is George Weasley, who, no matter what anyone says, is the more observant of the unit usually known as "the Twins," who sees the way his little brother hugs Hermione longer, harder, than Harry does, and that in the tense moment before her releases her too abruptly—and not from embarrassment or awkwardness this time—that he ferociously whispers words which, even from this distance, look suspiciously like, "We'll see each other soon." They are words any parting friends would offer to each other at the end of term, cheerfully and yet with a bit of sadness that comes from separation, never doubting for a moment that it's true. But these are troubled times, and no one, saying those words, can really know if they are lies or not. And besides, the harshness of Ron's voice, which George knows him well enough to recognize without actually hearing it, makes an oath of those words, a covenant, the only one his adolescent heart knows how to verbalize. On any other day, George would immediately nudge Fred in the side with his elbow, pointing out the obvious signal of what is known in their family as "Something's Going on Between Baby Ronniekins and Granger—Finally." But today his jollity is strained, and in the wake of what happened to Bill and Dumbledore, even one half of the famous comic duo that is the Weasley twins cannot find the energy to mock. He turns away abruptly, slamming his fist into the wall to release some of the anger that seems to bubble up all too often these days.

Paul Granger, who is usually totally oblivious to the more subtle nuances of the behavior of teenage girls, somehow manages to see that since returning from school, his daughter broods—a most un-Hermione-like behavior. True, she is always pouring over crumbling books, just like every summer, even if this year the tomes have darker names, names like _Toil and Trouble: The Ways and Means of Creating Soul-Repositories_ and _The Reliquaries of the Founders_ and _Darkest Magic: Paths to Immortality_, names that scare him just a little. But in between her studying books and sharing meals and helping out at the office, he will walk into a room and catch her curled up on the ottoman, an open album of those unnerving wizard pictures on her lap, with a strange half-smile on her face, and she will start when she hears him, slamming the scrapbook closed and speaking in a voice falsely bright. This doesn't bother him as much, though, as the way in which his normally talkative little girl will lapse into silence in the middle of dinner, staring absently out the window and chewing worriedly on her bottom lip and not her pie. Or as much as when he walks into the room and she is standing in the middle of the floor and gazing into nowhere with an unreadable expression and doesn't even hear him when enters or calls her name. Or as much as when she passes that framed photo on the wall—the only wizarding one hung in the house, the one Judith always has to remember to take down before company comes and which Paul himself has had to explain away quite a few times recently, but which Hermione insists must hang on the family wall—the one of her and the two teenagers she calls "her boys" (that used to bother him, and still does, if he's honest) happy and grinning in the autumn air, and bursts into tears. Paul sees all that and pretends he doesn't, because it's easier to pretend that she will be his little girl forever. He shakes his head as he heads back down the hall.

Charlie, just back from Romania for the wedding and not quite sure what to do with himself without his dragons, sees Ron catch the bushy-haired young woman in his arms as soon as she falls out of the fireplace, before letting even Mum, who usually dominates such occasions, have a chance to hug her and cry as the matriarch would usually do. Ron doesn't say anything, and neither does—her name _is _Hermione, despite what the twins said about someone named Lavender—Ron's always mentioning her in letters and whenever he, Charlie, is home, and besides, he's met her once or twice. The hug doesn't last long, because Mum is _right there_, after all. But Charlie's often noticed how pale and distracted his youngest brother has been since school let out, the way he's more oblivious and clumsier than ever before because he's obviously thinking about something else. And now he sees how relieved Ron looks, as though a great burden has been lifted off his shoulders and he can finally breathe. And he notices that Ron and Hermione's eyes keep meeting over Ginny's shoulder and behind Mum's back, and that there's _weight_ in those glances, too much weight for two seventeen-year-olds. But it's good to see two people who can communicate that much with looks; they'll need it in the days to come, when there's no time for words. He smiles, just a little bit wryly, as he trails the other members of his family into the too-crowded kitchen.

That night, Arthur Weasley, coming home late from work for the fifth time this week, exhausted and dead on his feet, sees Ron grabbing an afghan from the chest in the corner as he walks in the back door after Apparating outside so as to not wake anyone up. It's well past midnight, and he's about to suggest that Ron head on up to bed, when he sees the girl curled up on the sofa. Ron, self-conscious, awkward Ron, shakes out the blanket and drapes it very softly over Hermione's sleeping body. And then in an almost furtive movement, Ron brushes her hair back from her face and bends, clumsily, to kiss her forehead. Then, without waiting for a backward glance, he bolts from the room and races up the stairs, oblivious to how much noise he is making in a house full of sleeping people with very short tempers. Arthur has to laugh softly to himself; he remembers that awkward, uncertain phase well; he also remembers how easily it had morphed into a deep, comfortable familiarity over the years. He pours himself a glass of cold pumpkin juice and climbs the stairs after his son, if much slower and with a bit of a pain in his lower back and knees. He takes another sip, thinking of the comfort he and Molly found in each other through the earlier darkness; maybe Ron and Hermione can help each other through this one. He chuckles again, a little louder, as he passes Ron's room, knowing his son is staring at the ceiling, heart pounding, wondering at his own daring.

Fred, who has managed to scrape up bits of his sense of humor that shattered just a little in the last several weeks, sees something that can only be describe as interesting as he walks into the kitchen to grab a biscuit. Little Ronniekins is helping Granger to wash and dry the dishes—isn't that sweet—because Mum refuses to use magic to do so, saying that chores done by hand create "character" or some such nonsense. He's just about to comment on the domesticity of it all—something along the lines of "When's the wedding?" or "Playing house, Ronniekins?"—when Ron grabs two glasses that he's just finished drying. Hermione's standing directly under the cabinet where the cups belong, but Ron doesn't ask her to move. Instead, he just moves behind her, reaching around to open the cupboard and put the glasses away. He doesn't move away immediately, but stands there behind her, his arms half-around her, just for a moment. Hermione's eyes are staring straight ahead, but Fred sees that her hands falter in her washing, and Ron has a determined look on his face, though the tips of his ears are crimson. This is too good to pass up, so Fred makes his presence known, popping into the kitchen with a hoot and wolf whistle. Ron jerks back, pretending nothing was happening, fury in his eyes, but the rest of his face is slowly turning scarlet, and from something other than anger. Hermione rolls her eyes, shoots a sarcastic comment and returns to washing the dishes, but Fred sees that she bumps Ron just a little bit with her shoulder, and he settles down after that, glowering over his shoulder at his older brother. As he heads out of the back door with the procured biscuit and a glass of milk, Ron flashes him a particularly nasty gesture behind his back. Fred laughs out loud as he joins his other brothers on the porch, glad that there's something to think about other than the darkness looming ahead.

Harry is so relieved to be out of the Dursleys and so intent on avoiding Ginny (so that he doesn't take everything he said at the funeral back) that he almost doesn't see that Hermione is cutting Ron's hair. He ducks out onto the back porch because he caught a glimpse of copper hair—long, silky copper hair that his fingers remember all too well—about to emerge from the kitchen. There's another head of hair down on the other end of the porch, more orange than copper, and he's about to shout at Ron, asking if he wants to hit the Quidditch pitch for a while, before he freezes, suddenly alert. Hermione's standing right behind a seated Ron with scissors in her hand, eyeing his hair critically. Then, with a sigh and a chastising remark, she sets about the business of trimming Ron's too-long locks. Harry really shouldn't be surprised; Mrs. Weasley went off for twenty minutes at dinner last night about how all her sons but Charlie (he noticed she didn't mention Percy) seemed to be wanting to cause her disgrace by growing out their hair as long as Ginny's. This, of course, caused Fred to retort that Charlie had a good _reason_ to keep his hair short—"less of it for the bloody dragons to singe"—and that if she could come up with one good reason that the rest of them should keep it short, he would be more than glad to do so. The answer she gave—"because I said so, that's why"—caused a chorus of groans from every Weasley at the table except Arthur, who merely smiled, and for the thousandth time this visit to the Burrow, Harry couldn't help but be jealous of anyone who had a family, even a Mum who said such "bloody annoying" things, as Ron described them. So he knew even then that Ron would end up with a haircut before the wedding—after all, he was the only one that Molly could still actually boss around and expect to obey her—but somehow he had figured that Mrs. Weasley herself would do it. And he suspects that the plump matron would not move tentatively, blushingly running her fingers almost reverently through the locks before she snipped at them, and that the tips of Ron's ears would not be so red that they were purple and that he wouldn't have a goofy grin on his face if his Mum were doing the cutting. And it's just one more piece of evidence that his friends are, for the first time in his life, going where he can't follow. He knows that they will always put him first, always be there for him, never, ever let this get in the way of what they all have to do, and he doesn't resent it, but there's a little pang he can't deny deep inside him as he heads down to the pitch along. He hits the Bludger a little harder than he has to when it swings in his direction.

Ginny is the youngest girl in a family of insanely mischievous brothers, and so perceptiveness is a survival trait for her, and so of course she sees Hermione sneak into the room they're sharing with Fleur's younger sister one day after lunch. Ginny's been wanting to talk to her—really, she just wants to get away from the haunted looks Harry doesn't know he keeps throwing at her—and so she follows her friend up the stairs. But she pauses in the door when she sees Hermione pulling her dress robes out of her suitcase. Ginny hasn't seen them yet—no one has—though Hermione confessed when she arrived that she had new ones; though she tried to be casual about it, Ginny could see the excitement and slight uncertainty shining in her eyes. Now Hermione pulls the pale purple chiffon out of the bag, and Ginny is a little surprised at the choice. But she realizes that the color will suit Hermione's coloring perfectly, and she realizes that the cut is more mature than anything she's ever seen her friend wear. Hermione approaches the mirror hesitantly, holding the dress up in front of her. The neckline is cut lower, modest by anyone else's standards, but for Hermione more than a bit daring. Ginny suppresses a giggle at the blush on the other girl's face as she examines herself in the mirror and listens to the mirror babbling on about how perfect she will look. And she almost laughs aloud at the look on her face and how high she jumps when Ron's laughing voice echoes up the stairs over the stomping of his feet. Ginny enters the room nonchalantly as soon as Hermione has buried the robes back in her bag, a ready joke about the twins on her lips. She doesn't say a word about the blush still on Hermione's cheeks or the edge of fabric sticking out from the luggage. But she does feel more than a hint of confusion and sorrow that her friend's romance is just beginning when hers just ended so abruptly, so unfairly.

Molly, who has been trying to get her youngest son to act his age and behave himself as long as he's been alive, sees suddenly that, for some reason she cannot at first understand, he listens to Hermione. When _she_ tells him not to chew with his mouth open, he mockingly replies, "Yes, _Mum_," but he does it. When she tells him to pick up his dirty socks from the living room floor because the Delacours are about to arrive, he grumbles, but he does it. When he curses at dinner, she elbows him in the side and he apologizes—grudgingly, but he does it. When she says a warning, "Ron…" he immediately quits making fun of Ginny. When she announces that she is cutting his hair, he rolls his eyes, but trails after her out onto the porch. It would take six or seven repeats, various threats, and a multitude of punishments before Molly herself could goad him into action. But with Hermione, the little protests seem as second nature as the commands themselves; she's beginning to think that he complains more out of habit than actual objection. And then there are all the little things she doesn't _have_ to ask him to do. The way he opens doors for her as they both go through them seems natural, as though neither of them know he's doing it. When she's digging through pages of books—which Molly suspects are enchanted to change the titles, because she can't imagine why the girl would need to read _Hogwarts, a History_ again, but she doesn't press it—her youngest son plops down beside his best friend, stretching his lanky form on the carpet and yawning as he tugs a stack of volumes to him. He lets her have the shower first after all the kids troop in from playing Quidditch, even though she didn't play, of course. He pours her a glass of juice when he gets one for himself without being asked. When she volunteers to help with the dishes, he tags along behind her without a word. Fred makes more than one snide comment about "being whipped," but Molly doesn't see it that way. After all, Hermione hangs up his jumpers and makes his toast just the way he likes it in the mornings and goes swimming in the pond, even though everyone knows she doesn't like the muddy water. Molly feels old to see it. She can scarcely believe that her oldest son is ready to be married—and it's about time, too, for him to settle down, even if it is with a French half-veela—but to think that her youngest boy, her baby, may have found a similar relationship, without half knowing it, is more than a little alarming. Because this isn't like the string of girlfriends Bill had in school or those strange Romanian women Charlie dates. Sacrifice, Molly knows from personal experience, is one of the most important aspects of a relationship, right up there after trust. And there's no doubt that those two trust each other—they couldn't have made it through half the things they have if they didn't. And so she smiles nostalgically to see them, glad that her Ronnie has more sense than Bill does in choosing women—although Fleur isn't the spoiled snob she once thought her. There's something there, Molly knows, and it breaks her heart and gives her hope to see it. And so she sometimes shuts herself up in the pantry, the only room in the house where she won't be disturbed, and cries.

Remus Lupin has always been contemplative, more content to watch than to be part of the action unless it is necessary or unless James and Sirius were involved, and so he, of course, sees that Ron and Hermione often slip away when the house is the craziest. He arrives to help set up the tables and enlarge the kitchen and other necessary tasks to prepare for the wedding, and when he first sees a red head heading towards the oak tree, he thinks it is just one of the boys trying to escape for a few minutes for a dip in the lake. But then he sees Hermione waiting under the tree, and he wonders. They are teenagers, after all, teenagers who have lived with each other for years now. It wouldn't be surprising. But all they do is talk, his head bent low to hers, her face screwed up with worry. Their eyes dart towards Harry, towards Ginny, towards Molly and Arthur. They are worried about Harry, and there is no reason in the world they shouldn't be. And Ginny has been either abnormally quiet or overly cheerful since he arrived, and Remus has his suspicions about why. But the fact that they keep glancing at Molly and Arthur lets him know that they are planning something. When they begin to argue—and not the arguing they've done since as long as he's known them, that anyone could see was more for amusement and challenge than anything—but real arguing, a real disagreement, his hunches are confirmed. He will talk to Harry about it later, he decides, though he doubts the young man will do more than tell him that he'll do what he has to do and that he _has_ thought it all through. Remus is about to turn back to helping Charlie with the tent when he figures out what really is different about their argument. They're arguing like adults, no rows, no bickering, but a real conversation. They look as mature as any two grownups can when arguing, and they both appear to be _listening_ to each other. And Ron's hand is cupping her elbow, and she wraps her hand in the front of his shirt. And when she starts to cry, he pulls her to him with no hesitation or discomfort, and it is only a few moments before she pulls back, straightening her shirt and wiping at her tear-stained face. But he is reminded just how young they actually are when, as they walk back towards the Burrow, he tugs at a curl and pokes her in the side, and she shrieks, loud enough that the others working in the yard look up and laugh as Ron begins to chase her back towards the house, catching her with an arm around her waist right before they reach the door. And Remus looks over and catches Dora's eye, and she smiles, slowly, and just for a moment, she lets him see the real her, the one she shows only him. And he nods in contentment as he rolls his sleeves back up and picks up a post for the tent.

Bill may be nervous out of his mind and completely caught up with thoughts of Fleur and his wedding night and how to deal with assorted relatives and the fact that he won't be a free man in a few hours, but he still has time to see Ron lingering around the stairs, looking droopy and brooding. The twins are zooming around the room, creating as much confusion as possible. Charlie's teasing Ginny, who's looking lovely in her pale yellow dress robes, and who is purposefully avoiding Harry's gaze. Harry himself is sitting bolt upright in a chair over by the door, tugging at his tie and looking more miserable than anyone should be allowed to look on a wedding day. Mum keeps fluttering in and out of the room, tying up one last minute detail, and Dad floats along in her wake, watching his children with such happy eyes that for once hold no weariness. Remus and Tonks are talking to Gabrielle, who looks like an angel, in the corner, and Mr. Delacour is just now heading up the stairs to—sweet Merlin!—to see if Fleur is ready to be escorted down. Ron is looking almost as sick as Bill feels, like he's been waiting all his life for just this moment, and now that it's here, he's not sure if he's worthy of it. Or maybe Bill's just imposing his own feelings on everyone now, because the twins look every bit as ecstatic as he himself feels underneath his nervousness. But then Hermione floats down the stairs in something soft and purple, and Ron's eyes….Well, Bill just hopes that despite his own scarred face, Fleur will be able to see him look that happy and awed when she comes down the aisle in a few minutes. Somehow, he doesn't doubt she will. He winks at his little brother as Ron dazedly follows Harry out the door.

Tonks is known for being a little clueless in the everyday, even if nothing gets past her while she's on the job, but even she can see that there are at least two people not paying attention to what the officiating wizard is saying up there in front. Well, four, actually, if you count Ginny and Harry who are trying to appear attentive, but who everyone knows are really only aware of each other. But Ron isn't even pretending, though Tonks doubts anyone notices, considering that everyone else is gazing with tear-filled eyes at a radiant Fleur, shining like an angel, and Bill, whose scars make him seem even more dashing. So Ron can stare all he wants to at Hermione, who is sitting across the aisle from Tonks herself, and who is squirming under his gaze. Tonks can barely contain her laughter at the blush Hermione is trying to pretend is not on her cheeks, and the lovesick dog look that Ron's giving her. He watched her all the way down the aisle as he escorted his sister, watched her as he stood waiting for the other attendants to take their places—only looking away as Fleur came down the aisle—and now that Bill and Fleur are standing hand in hand, he's watching her again. Tonks sees Hermione's eyes slide from the couple to Ron's, and there's such a spark when they meet that Tonks can't help but snort back a laugh. Remus, beside her, glances at her, then rolls his eyes before turning his attention back to the front. She feels a little guilty about not paying attention to the happy couple, but the little performance going on mere feet away is so much more entertaining. Finally, she begins to feel a little bit voyeuristic, and she turns back to the wedding. But she smiles, just a little, her real smile, and she slips her hand into Remus'.

Great-Aunt Tessie, who can barely move around at all without a cane and who hasn't danced in decades, isn't so old that she can't see that that little girl wants to dance with her great-nephew. Ronald—she thinks it's Ronald; there's so many of them that she can never be sure—is sitting at the table with the girl and with Potter, who looks exactly like his great-grandfather on his father's side, except for the scar, and with Ginerva. He's joking and eating too much cake—typical adolescent behavior—and obviously trying to cheer up Potter—his great-grandfather never brooded like that—though it isn't working. He waves his hand wildly, and Tessie closes her eyes to muster her control as he knocks over a glass of red wine. But the girl—Merlin, she has more hair than any person Tessie's ever seen—banishes it away with a single swipe of her wand, and the old woman wonders if she's old enough to do out-of-school magic. She relaxes a bit when she sees the set of the girl's mouth; with a mouth like that, she's no doubt proper and modest and respectable, as all young women should be, and wouldn't break a rule if her life depended on it. But then that little episode is over, and Miss Hair goes back to glancing wistfully at the dance floor, where William is spinning his bride's little sister—such a lovely child—around in circles, and where Fredrick is doing something that shouldn't be legal with a laughing girl with chocolate skin. Ronald, of course, is oblivious. Just like his father. She rolls her eyes. Must she do everything around here? She shouts his name. Ronald starts, grimaces, glances at the Potter boy and rolls his eyes. She smirks just a little; she may be old, but she is not as blind as he apparently thinks she is. She gives him a dressing down as he makes his way over to her, and he looks ludicrously sulky. But the girl is looking so wistful, and she looks like such a nice young lady. So Tessie jabs him in the chest with her cane—not hard, just enough to regain his attention, which has wandered to where that girl that Tessie cannot believe is a Black has just knocked over a table—and demands that he asks that nice young lady to dance with him. He gapes for a moment, and she says, "Close your mouth, Ronald. Are you trying to catch flies? We are not a frog." He protests, but she gives him the look she's been perfecting for over a century, and he hangs his head, stalking back over to the table like a man heading to his execution. She can tell from here that his invitation is clumsy, but the way the girl's eyes light up is worth all the trouble. Tessie nods approvingly as they move to the floor, her hand in his. But she does not crack a smile, though this little incident has warmed her heart a bit. She has a reputation to maintain, after all. So she turns to glower at the young woman who cannot possibly be a Black, smiling inwardly to see the girl wilt just a little under her stare.

If Fleur had been dancing with Bill, she never would have seen it. But Bill is dancing with Ginny, and so she, Fleur, decides that she might as well get her dances with the twins out of the way. Thankfully, George is not nearly as rambunctious as dancer as Fred, though Angelina certainly doesn't seem to mind. So all her attention is not focused on drinking in Bill, nor is it in trying to remain upright, and she has time to glance around the floor. She grins, not really paying attention to George's ramblings about their shop—it is wonderful, it truly is, that they are brining in such money and finding such a use for their…unusual talents, but "Wizarding Whizzes" are not really her thing—as she sees that Gabrielle has managed to charm a petrified-looking Harry into a dance. She knew about that crush, knows also that Ginny has nothing to worry about. She smiles at Arthur and Molly, looking so very right and comfortable in each other's arms, and wishes that she might look like that with Bill after they have been married thirty years. But she sighs happily when she saw that little Ron had finally asked Hermione to dance. She is so glad; she's known that the girl was in love with him since the year of the Tri-Wizard Cup, and though she'd been amused by his crush on her, as she was by all men's attentions, she had not encouraged it as she could have. She does not know what it is like to be outshone by another woman, but she can imagine how hard it must have been on Hermione to see Ron drool—yes, drool, there was no other word for it—over another woman. But she supposes neither of them has to worry about that anymore, because Ron doesn't look capable of dragging his eyes away from the woman he's dancing with. Hermione _does_ look lovely, lovelier than she had at the Yule Ball, especially because her eyes are shining almost as much as Fleur is certain her own had when she was pronounced Bill's wife. "Look," she whispers to Bill as the song ends and he claims her from George. "Do not they look so veery ha-py?" Bill glances at his brother and Hermione, then looks down at her. "Almost as happy as us," he says. And she does not pay the least bit of attention to anyone else for the rest of the night.

But it is Kingsley Shacklebolt, darting around the edge of the Burrow to go and find some more of that Firewhiskey that the twins promised was in the garage, who sees two shadows moving towards each other beside the massive oak tree. He's not surprised, this is a wedding reception after all, and people are always slipping away. But he realizes after a moment that it is Arthur's youngest boy and the little Muggle-born prize scholar who are always running around with Potter. He averts his eyes just after the young man pulls the girl to him and bends his head, knowing that it is none of his business. But after he secures the whiskey, he lingers at the edge of the dance floor, intent on repelling anyone who might be inclined to go in the direction of the oak tree. After all, what's one more night of guard duty? He tips his glass in silent salute before he downs it, glad that nosey relatives are the only thing he has to guard against, at least for this one night.

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I got a little carried away with a few of these; I hope none of them were so long that you got distracted or lost. And looking back, that was pretty ludicrously fluffy, which is very out of character for me now (now, me at fourteen was a completely different story).

I heartily appreciate any and all (polite) feedback.


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